


Hearts Shaped on a Whirling Wheel

by Gilli_ann



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Women, Clans, Deception, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forbidden Love, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Lost Love, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pining, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Revenge, Romance, Runes, Shapeshifting, Shieldmaidens, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When King Uther dies, his foster-daughter, the shield-maiden and sorceress Morgana, returns to Camelot. Nothing seems to stand in the way of her marriage to King Arthur and a happy, fulfilling life for the both of them. But the arrival of the mysterious Merlin changes Arthur's affections, and the course of fate takes unexpected turns involving a dragon, a falcon, and the goddess Freyja herself. Passion, magic, and revenge become the driving forces when love and the rule of the kingdom are at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Shaped on a Whirling Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cerch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerch/gifts).



> Dear Cerch, happy holidays! 
> 
> I have written this for two of your generous and inspiring prompts. It includes a number of your suggested tags. I enjoyed writing this, and I hope you like it. (I believe the 'dub-con' included in the tags is not of a nature that you will object to.)
> 
> The fic's title comes from a stanza of the Norse poem Havamal, warning men about trusting women in matters of love. The end notes include further explanations of Norse terms and names in the fic, a brief overview of the Norse source material that has inspired it, and a list of original Norse poems that have been used in the fic.
> 
> Thank you to my positive cheerleader and my efficient beta. And thank you to the MH mods for organizing the fest!
> 
> Disclaimers: The BBC's Merlin characters belong to the BBC and Shine. The translations of the Norse poems belong to their respective translators for those not yet in the common realm. I intend no copyright infringement and make no profit from this.

  


  
_"To him I was worst whom I loved best."_ (Laxdæla Saga)  


* * * 

King Uther Pendragon died unexpectedly just as the year turned from summer to fall. The birches and aspens in the hillside behind the royal manor were turning yellow, and the rowan trees stood laden with red berries.

Preparing the burial took time. The mound had to be readied, the goods and gear, weapons and animals that would follow the king into the next life selected, and prominent guests from near and far had to be notified and given sufficient time to travel.

By the time the ceremony took place, the longships had returned from that year's raiding, the harvested fields stood brown and bare, and the first frost had come and gone.

* * * 

The large hall was packed with people. There were neighbouring kings, there were King Arthur's own earls, chieftains and his throng of warriors, there were high-born ladies and the masters and mistresses of all the farms surrounding the royal manor. Two _völvas_ , sorceresses in hooded cloaks, had also arrived, and had immediately been shown to the best seats. The servants barely had room to move along the long trestle tables and the wall-bound benches to fill the guests' ale bowls and top up their mead horns.

It was very warm in the hall with so many people present. The fire on the long hearth and the torches along the wall behind the High Seat dais gave light, but also made the air smoky.

Geoffrey of Monmouth, King Uther's ageing court bard, had just finished reciting the epic poem created in praise of the late king and all his deeds. The crowd's murmur of appreciation for the elaborate poetry grew louder when Arthur took off one of his golden arm-rings and handed it to the bard.

“Well spoken, and truthfully. Your words will live on in the minds of men, and ensure that King Uther is remembered with honour.”

Old Geoffrey bowed deeply before the new king, pleased with the praise and the payment.

Now Arthur rose to his feet and stood before them all, proudly facing the crowd. He lifted his ornate drinking horn and saluted the empty High Seat. 

“Join me in one final toast for King Uther Pendragon! He lived well and he died well, and tonight he feasts with Odin in Valhalla!”

“King Uther's toast!” Everyone rose to their feet and drank deeply. They remained standing, although at this stage, many of the guests were none too steady on their feet. 

With slow and deliberate steps, his jaw firmly set, Arthur ascended the step to the dais and sat down in the High Seat.

Cheering and load cries erupted in the great hall. “Long live King Arthur! A toast for the new king! May the fates favour him, and may he always be victorious!”

As soon as the din died down a little, Arthur spoke up. “I thank you all for your well-wishes. On this day, as I follow my father on Camelot's High Seat, I promise that my rule will be strong and just, my judgements fair, my people properly fed and my lands well managed. Loyalty will be rewarded, and treachery will meet swift vengeance. I will strengthen this kingdom, uphold its laws, defend it from foes, hunger and harm, and I will see it prosper. This I swear before you all and call Thor, Odin and Freyr to be my witnesses.”

His words were met with a new round of cheering and shouts of approval.

Arthur waited them out, smiling a little now that the formalities of the long day were drawing to a close. The golden circlet on his head glinted. His crimson cloak indicated his status, but it made common cause with the heat in the hall, and he was sweating. 

When the noise abated, he stood up. “And when I take a wife, we will have many strong sons, the gods willing. The Pendragon line will not fail, but continue for many new generations to come. The land will have a queen. But until that day...” 

The young king took a step forward, holding out his hand to one of the cloaked völvas. She rose to her feet gracefully, stepped up onto the dais, took his hand, shook her hood back off her head and turned to face the people with a calm and confident expression. Her homespun green dress was simple, but she had the bearing of a queen. The gilt domed brooches at her shoulders shone in the firelight, and so did the many keys that dangled at her side. A slim wooden wand, the völva's chief tool, was held in place at her waist by her leather belt. 

Arthur smiled. “....until I marry, King Uther's foster-daughter Morgana will serve as the first lady of my land. For she has returned to us at last, and intends to stay with us.” 

Still holding hands, Morgana and Arthur sat down side by side in the High Seats. For one moment their smiles were only for the other. 

After a brief uncertain silence, there were more cheers throughout the hall, and a loud buzz of voices. People called for ale. The smoky air and the constant cheering had parched everyone's throats, and after the many toasts, most horns and ale bowls were empty. They needed more drink to be able to discuss Lady Morgana's unexpected return.

* * * 

While the visiting kings remained in their seats, every earl, lord and warrior of Arthur's stepped forward one by one during the festivities to swear loyalty to the new king. The conditions in the hall being what they were, the oath-taking was disorganized and required time. Arthur accepted each vow with a serious expression and spoke a few private words with every man.

Morgana sat by his side, watching the proceedings and sipping her mead, but saying little. 

The revels continued into the night. Many men and quite a few women had to be helped out of the hall, too drunk to make it on their own. Some lay snoring across the tables. A few quarrels broke out, but were quickly stopped by Arthur's guards. On this day, everyone's swords and battle axes rested outside, and no man in the hall was armed.

It was late. Black night could be glimpsed through the smoke vents in the roof. Arthur slumped a little on his seat, laughing at something with his captain of the guards. 

Morgana rose quietly to her feet and slipped like a shadow through the throng and out the door into the night. 

She stopped in the yard for a moment, looking around. Many torches lit the night. Groups of people were milling about, - servants coming and going, drunk guests seeking their beds for the night, guards making the rounds. 

Pulling her hood up over her head, Morgana walked towards the opening between the great hall and the cooking-house, seeking the darkness and silence outside the manor. She had stayed for a long time with her travelling companion, the völva Morgause, whose modest farm was situated in the far hills of Caerleon. Morgana was used to silence and fresh air. The smoke and smells in the big hall had nearly choked her. 

By the corner of the house, two serving-women were standing with their heads close together, talking in low voices. As Morgana glided past them, she heard her own name mentioned. She sharpened her ears.

“Yes, she did grow up here. I remember her as a girl,” a mature woman's voice said. “But she left five years ago, just as she was approaching womanhood. People were surprised that the king let her go at all, and to train with a völva at that!”

“But if she was his foster-daughter, surely her clan would have had the final say?”

“That's the thing – she has no clan. Not that I know of.”

The other woman exclaimed in horror. “No clan?” 

“Her father was Earl Gorlois, the king's friend and councillor, but he died in battle when she was just a small girl. She had no brothers, no uncles, no grown men at her back. If King Uther hadn't fostered her and treated her as his true daughter, some ambitious warrior would have snapped her up by might of arms, taken her to bed for all her youth, and gained possession of her lands.”

“She is very beautiful. Do you think King Arthur intends to marry her, even without clan connections?”

The older woman snorted. “It seems that he does, but any man who marries a völva has to be brave beyond belief – and completely besotted.”

Before the other could respond, Morgana stepped in between them, her head held high and her voice sharp. “Do not stand here gossiping. Surely there is work for you to do. See to it!”

Both women turned suddenly-pale and anxious faces to her. 

“Yes, Lady Morgana.” 

“We'll go at once.” 

They curtsied deeply and hurried off. 

Morgana walked on, out into the darkness. The air was chill. In the night shadows of the timber walls she looked up to see a multitude of stars above her. She sighed, pulled her cloak about herself, and stood for a long time without moving.

* * * 

“I'll race you to the large pine at the foot of that hill!”

Arthur threw his head back and laughed at Morgana's challenge, reining his horse in to look at her. “You haven't changed at all, have you?” 

“You're wrong, Arthur. I have changed. But I still like a good gallop, and more so when I can beat you in the bargain.”

Arthur cocked his head, then turned to look back towards the guards following them at a polite distance. Without any warning he suddenly gave a shout, leaning forward across his horse's neck and urging it into action. 

“Why, you...!” Morgana didn't waste more breath, but rode after him, her cloak and long braid streaming out behind her. 

Their horses sped across the fields, whirling up the first thin layer of winter snow as they thundered past.

Morgana clung to her horse's neck, her dark braid coming undone, the speed and the chase bringing colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. 

They were approaching the pine tree at breakneck speed. Arthur used his knees and the reins vigorously, looking back over his shoulder. Morgana was gaining on him. She was an excellent and fearless rider, and her lighter weight gave her an advantage. She yelled in excitement as her horse pulled up alongside Arthur's. They passed the pine riding neck and neck. 

“Was that really fair, my noble king?” Morgana laughed despite herself, halting her horse to let it breathe. “Afraid that a woman would best you?”

Arthur grinned, his chest heaving, every breath a white puff of frosty air. “But a völva isn't just any woman. Who knows what powers your seidr grants you in a contest?”

Morgana's laughter died. She frowned, annoyed. “Whatever powers I have, I wouldn't use them on something so mindless and trivial. The goddess is not to be trifled with.”

“It was just a joke.”

“I know. It wasn't funny.”

They sat for a moment side by side in silence, keeping their restless horses in check. 

Arthur cleared his throat. “I've wanted to speak to you, just the two of us, alone.”

Morgana nodded. “Far away from prying ears. The manor is so noisy, and full of people. _Nosy_ people.”

Arthur shrugged. “That's a royal manor in winter for you.” 

He looked around. “This place is as good as any. Let's sit here under this pine for a while. I've brought mead.”

Now his guards came riding up, but Arthur gestured to them to keep their distance. 

They draped a saddle-blanket across a fallen branch and sat down side by side under the ancient tree, relying on their fur-lined cloaks to keep them warm. Arthur pulled the stopper from his wine-skin and offered it to Morgana. 

The winter hills were quiet. Arthur looked out across the forested landscape and the snow-covered fields.

"I've missed you. It's good to have you back home, Morgana."

"Home..." Morgana sighed, handing him the wine-skin. "Yes, I'm happy to be here with you. And it was high time I lived in a big household again, or I might have become a recluse."

She smiled. "You make a strong king, Arthur. The potential for greatness is clear to see. You are destined to do clan Pendragon proud."

"Father had his doubts about that."

"Nonsense. Uther was exceedingly proud of you. He and I did not always see eye to eye, but we agreed when it came to you." Morgana tossed her head, getting a stray lock of hair out of her face. "And whatever his and my differences were, I owe the Pendragons nothing but gratitude for offering a clanless young girl the support of royal fostering."

Arthur didn't respond at once. Eventually he spoke again. "I suppose, now that you're a völva, the lack of a clan doesn't mean that much any more. Not to you, not to others. You can do what you like."

Morgana glanced at him. "The lack of a clan will always mean much to me. But I've done what I could to rise above it, to become a woman to be reckoned with. There are the powers of seidr that the goddess has granted me, of course, and I have also trained much with the sword and spear. I call myself a shield-maiden now, and a good one."

"Morgause allowed that?" Arthur sounded surprised. "I thought the seidr would have occupied all your time, and would be enough to keep you from harm."

"She encouraged it. Don't you know she's a warrior herself? Seidr cannot protect a woman from all dangers or solve all her conflicts. Sometimes a sharp sword is the better solution."

Turning to face him, Morgana removed her furry gloves, leaned over and reached in under Arthur's cloak. Before he had time to react to what appeared to be a bold advance, she pulled his sword from its sheath in one smooth motion. 

She held the weapon in a firm grip, weighing it in her hand, studying the craftsmanship of the gilded hilt, and squinting along the sharp edge. "A fine blade. It is new to me."

Arthur nodded. "Father's gift to me when I came of age. It's Frankish steel. A masterpiece, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed it is."

"I've named it Excalibur."

"Men and their swords," Morgana said with a brief laugh, rolling her eyes. She looked at him, turning serious. "If you want me to, I will charm the blade to your good fortune. You've deserved that much from me."

Arthur hesitated. "I'd like to think I can win my battles fair and square, without any magic involved."

"And how do you know your adversary won't be using magic to beat you? How do you know you won't one day be fighting a magical creature or a shape-changer? Rest easy, my charm will not make you invincible. But it will grant you the goddess' goodwill and protection in battle, and the blade will never chip or break, nor will it be tarnished, even in defeat."

Arthur nodded. "Then I gladly accept your offer."

A raven croaked hoarsely from the forested hill behind them. Arthur and Morgana both looked up in the direction of the sound, but all was quiet again, and no birds could be seen in the sky. 

Morgana gripped the sword hilt with both hands, holding the blade up towards the skies. She started speaking in a commanding sing-song tone, an incantation in a strange and powerful language. Arthur watched in silence, his expression serious. Morgana's voice rose almost to a shout, and her hands trembled from the strain. All of a sudden her eyes glowed golden. For a moment, a light like a living flame engulfed the sword.

"There. It is done. May you always carry Excalibur to victory and renown."

She handed Arthur the sword. He studied it carefully, but it looked no different than before. He returned it to its sheath with a practised motion.

"A völva, and a shield-maiden. You're a formidable woman, Morgana. I suppose it will take an exceptional man to win your heart?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Yes, nothing less than a hero will do."

"You wouldn't consider a mere king?”

Morgana looked him straight in the eye. "The sagas tell of mighty deeds. A ruler can perform heroic acts. Such a king would interest me very much.”

“Huh.” Arthur shook his head. “I suppose I ought to look elsewhere for my queen without further ado. There are princesses of marriageable age in many of the kingdoms. King Olaf has a very pretty daughter, so it's said.”

“Such a match would be advantageous, it's true.” 

“Then again, they say she's never satisfied with anything or anyone, and isn't afraid to inform people of their shortcomings. I wonder what she'd make of mine.” 

Their eyes met. They suddenly burst out laughing.

Arthur smiled. “I have a responsibility to my land and my people, and I know you wouldn't have me forget that. I can't go haring off after adventures and battles simply to win myself fame,” he said. “But there are many malignant powers in the world. Some will threaten Camelot. The need for bravery and heroic acts may soon enough present itself.”

Morgana nodded. “I will wait.”

She stood up and walked some few steps away. “It's cold. We should head back.”

The days were short now that winter had taken hold. The sun already hung low in the sky as Arthur and Morgana mounted up. Every hill and tree cast long, blue shadows across the snow. The two of them and their escort rode homewards at a brisk pace. Reaching the hill closest to the manor, they halted their horses as if acting on a single thought. 

In front of them was a wide and spectacular view. They could see the snowy home fields and the manor with all its wooden buildings, large and small, the gables' dragon-heads looking much like arrowheads pointing skywards. The burial mounds next to the manor resembled big white bowls. Tiny humans scuttled between the houses, and smoke coiled up into the cold air from the vents in every roof. Beyond the farm, there were more fields, stretches of forest, and furthest out an expanse of deep, shimmering blue – the sea. To the west, the golden-red sun was about to touch the mountains. To the east, the darkness of night was already rolling in. 

“It's good to see this,” Arthur said. “Our land.”

"Yes," Morgana said. "Our beautiful land." 

She looked around, her posture indicating both confidence and peace of mind. Drawing a deep breath, she spoke to the air in a soft, clear voice.

_“Hail to you, day!_  
_Hail, sons of day!_  
_Hail night and night’s daughter now!_  
_Look to us two_  
_With loving eyes_  
_And grant that we victory win._

_Hail to the gods!_  
_You goddesses, hail,_  
_And all the generous earth!_  
_Give to us wisdom_  
_and goodly speech,_  
_And healing hands all life long."_

She finished the ancient prayer, and they sat without speaking for a moment, side by side, in perfect harmony. Behind them their escort of warriors also held silent, although the horses stomped their feet and shook their heads, making their tack jingle. The animals were eager to return to the food and warmth of the stables.

Suddenly the cry of a falcon pierced the stillness, like a warning or a wake-up call. The bird was circling high in the sky above them.

Arthur raised his right hand and looked at Morgana. “Let's ride,” he said. 

When they returned home, there was a clear understanding between them, though no declarations or vows had been spoken out loud.

* * * 

The year was approaching mid-winter.

When Arthur wasn't settling disputes between his subjects or planning the building of new longships, he made himself busy training his warriors in battle skills. He never tired of exercising with the sword. Now and then, Morgana would don chain-mail and join the men at their battle sports. It was evident to all that she was a true shield-maiden, who knew how to wield her weapons with lethal precision.

News came that a large dragon had been seen near the Camelot border. The beast had long been harrying the manors and villages of the kingdom of Essetir. It wasn't likely that it would bother Camelot as long as winter held, but Arthur sent out scout patrols and stepped up the battle training even so.

Most of Morgana's time was taken up with the administration of the manor and its people. Ensuring the well-being of the large royal household and its creatures large and small was demanding on the one responsible.

It also happened that people sought Morgana out for her seidr. On those occasions, she performed her magic in private, and never spoke about it to Arthur or others.

* * * 

In the darkest and coldest time of year, everyone looked forward to drinking Yule.

Everything about the Yule festivities was cheerful and filled with hope: the lights and warmth from the blazing fires, the abundance of food and ale, and the important sacrificial ceremony with its promise that the days would now grow lighter and warmer again, the gods and powers willing.

The whole household was on its feet on the first day of Yule. The houses were packed with guests. People from all the surrounding farms brought their own food and animals for slaughter, and all the ale they planned to drink. Before the rites started, there was a large press of people at the manor. Groups of over-excited children ran around and got under the feet of the grown-ups. The noises of frightened sheep, horses and pigs being readied as sacrifice to the gods added to the din.

The royal temple, the _hof_ , stood on a hillock. It was visible from far away. At the appointed time Arthur and Morgana headed up the long procession there from the manor. 

Arthur wore his royal circlet and crimson cloak, Excalibur at his side. Morgana, as ever, wore a green dress over her long linen shift, but now it was made from costly foreign cloth shot through with silk and silver threads. Her cloak was a deep blue. Behind the King and his foster-sister came two men blowing on long wooden trumpets, _lurs_ , as well as four hof priestesses rhythmically shaking iron rattles. Next came the earls and the most prominent farmers and their wives in all their winter finery, and then the servants and crofters. Arthur's warriors marched along at the very end of the procession, wearing their helmets, mail and cloaks. 

His stallion was frisky, but Arthur reined the horse in with ease. He looked over at Morgana and smiled. She nodded encouragingly, understanding him without words being spoken. Growing up together, the two of them had been at the front of Yule processions more than once, but then they'd just followed behind King Uther. Now all eyes were on them. The gods as well as Arthur's subjects were watching.

The ceremony in the hof itself was solemn and secretive. Only the king, his kin and earls were allowed to enter the inner sanctum. Everyone else gathered around on the outside of the wooden building, waiting to be told that the rites had been properly concluded so that the feasting could begin in earnest. 

It was a cold day. There was much stamping of feet and flapping of arms as people tried to keep warm while they waited.

The dim interior of the hof was filled with odours of spice-laced smoke and damp earth, and the strong sweetish tang of sacrificial blood. Light from gilded tallow-lamps illuminated the large figures of Odin, Thor and Freyr. They stood elevated between carved upright pillars in the hof’s innermost part. Light and shadows danced across the gods and seemed to bring them to life. Odin the one-eyed in the middle looked powerful and sinister, Thor held his big hammer, Mjolnir, in front of himself as a sign of his might, and the shape of Freyr did not leave any doubts about his fertility.

As the rites and sacrifices commenced, Arthur drew a deep breath. His first Yule as king signified an important moment in his reign. Camelot relied on the gods, and the gods required their due. The return of the sun, its warmth and fertility, depended on the Yule rites being observed. It would do a new king little good to fail to show the gods proper respect.

After the ceremony, the whole raucous procession returned back to the manor in high spirits, and entered the large hall, where fires now blazed on the long open hearth. Boiled sacrificial meat from the cooking pits was already being carried through the doors in big vats. 

A hush fell over the hall as Arthur rose from the High Seat. In accordance with tradition, he lifted his drinking horn to salute those present. He raised his voice, solemnly dedicating all the drink and meat to Odin. Ale bowls and drinking horns, filled to the brim, were thereafter passed over the blazing hearth-fire and rapidly distributed among the guests. 

The Yule guests first made Odin's toast, asking for victory and power to their king. Then came the most important toast of all, when everyone hailed Freyr and drank to _árs ok friðar_ – a good year and peace. 

Next it was Morgana's turn to command the hall's attention. She rose and gestured towards Arthur. “People of Camelot, join me now in drinking to our king! May the gods favour him and may his rule make Camelot prosper!”

“King Arthur's toast! For the love of Camelot!” The cheers rang loudly through the hall.

With that, people threw themselves with abandon at the food and drink, and many a loud additional toast was made while ale and mead flowed. Talk in the hall turned briefly to the ominous news about the dragon just across the border, but it wasn't long before all the ale had either made the men forget about the threat it represented, or bold enough to boast that they'd take the monster on with one hand tied behind their backs. 

Songs and shouts rang out from all sides, and the sound of snoring, too. The rich meat and large bowls of ale got the better of more than one Yule guest. 

Morgana only sipped at her mead, calmly studying the revels and everyone in the hall. Her eyes glinted to rival the strings of gold and jewels suspended on her chest between the two shoulder brooches. 

Arthur leaned towards her, taking another draught of mead. “I drink to father's memory,” he said in a low voice. “King Uther's toast, long may he be remembered.”

Morgana responded as custom required, saluting him and drinking in her turn, but her mouth compressed into a thin line. “Is Uther's passing still weighing this much on your mind?”

“Yes,” Arthur responded, looking away. “It seems to me it's only now that I realize father is truly dead, and that I'll likely never see him or speak to him again. He's gone, and I alone am responsible for the well-being of Camelot and all her people.”

“Hardly alone,” Morgana said sharply. “Though I am not a Pendragon, I am right here.”

Arthur's eyes widened and he sat up, suddenly seeming much more sober. “Oh Morgana, no, I didn't mean...”

Before he could continue, Leon, the captain of the warriors, stepped forward and bowed to the king. “My lord, there is a new bard here who've just arrived. He has been given entry to the hall.”

“No need to ask permission, Leon. On this sacred night, everyone should be made welcome with food and shelter,” Morgana chided him, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“My lady, he has asked to be shown to you at once, but he refuses to say why.”

“Well, let him come,” Arthur said, a hint of relief in his voice. “He'll hardly harm any one of us with his harp.”

The man that Leon ushered towards the High Seat through the noisy throng was tall and lean, and uncommonly young for one claiming to be a bard. He wore homespun brown breeches and a simple tunic under a washed-out blue cloak. Surprisingly, a piece of costly red silk was tied around his neck. A strap across his shoulder secured a small harp carried on his back. 

“King Arthur. My lady. Greetings.”

Arthur nodded in response. “You asked to see the Lady Morgana. What is your errand?”

“I -” A loud roar from the table behind him made the bard turn around, his hands instinctively rising into a defensive position. Earl Godwyn, having consumed an impressive volume of mead, had fallen off his seat. He was vigorously defending himself from those who wanted to help him to his feet, and haranguing them at the top of his voice. 

Arthur shook his head, dismissing the commotion. “Well?”

“My name is Merlin. I am a travelling bard, and I have visited many realms and sung my verses before many kings.”

“Impressive for one so young,” Arthur said, making a point of letting his scepticism shine through.

Morgana studied the bard with narrowed eyes.“A merlin is a falcon. Is that why you've got feathers stuck in your hair?” she asked.

“I do?” Merlin sheepishly ruffled his dark hair, dislocating a number of small brown and grey feathers that fluttered to the floor. 

Arthur laughed, not unkindly. “Have you been sleeping in hen-houses along the way?”

Merlin looked up. Their eyes met. For a moment, both men held their breath. Something passed between them, wordless but profound.

“Enough of this!” Morgana said. “You carry a message? Let me have it, then leave us. You are taking up the king's time.”

Merlin tore his gaze away from Arthur and turned to face Morgana. He looked dazed. “The message - oh, the message? My lady, I bring you greetings from the highest priestess and chief völva. She... wants you to know you have been much on her mind.”

“That's all? Reassuring, truly, but very vague. It's hardly worth interrupting a Yule feast for. Unless you bring me proof to the contrary, I believe you've never actually met the Lady Nimueh. I think you're an imposter trying to win a place at our court with fabrications.” 

”I don't think he is a liar,” Arthur said, placing a hand on Morgana's arm. “There's something about him, don't you sense it? I can't quite put my finger on it.” 

“In that case, it's custom for a new royal bard to offer the king a poem in his honour,” Morgana responded, her voice cold. “Let us hear you recite the poem you've surely made ready to praise King Arthur, so we may judge your talents.”

Merlin glanced at her, then returned his attention to Arthur. “I have no poem to offer you yet, king. For in truth, I have not yet heard of many exceptional deeds of yours worthy of such high praise.”

“Now you are rude,” Morgana stated flatly. 

“At least he's not trying to curry favour at all cost. I find him refreshingly honest,” Arthur said, drinking from his horn and studying Merlin over its brim. “And he's right - it's time I do something that is truly worth singing about. Haven't you told me so yourself, Morgana?”

He rose from his seat, and signalled for a servant to fill his drinking horn to the brim. He raised his arms, calling for attention. 

One of the guards by the doors noticed the king's pose and blew a long note on his lur. Silence fell across the hall as everyone turned to face the king. 

“Men and women of Camelot, Earls and warriors – I hereby empty this goblet to Bragi, and make this wow to go with it. Come spring, I will find and kill the dragon that threatens our land, and carry home its treasure to the benefit of all. This I swear before Bragi and everyone in this hall.”

With that, he put the horn to his lips and drank deeply, never stopping till he could turn it upside-down, - empty.

After a stunned silence, gasps and loud shouts of approval rang out from every corner of the hall. Arthur was well-liked and known as a good fighter, but this was unexpected. Bragi promises involving heroic deeds were never made lightly, as the god would be watching to ensure the promise was fulfilled. Still, good food and much drink had long since made everyone throw caution to the wind, and no-one fully considered the danger of the king's sworn quest. They all just envisaged the glory, and the gold. The cheering turned into loud talk as people started excited discussions about the riches and the renown that the king would win, and which surely would benefit all of Camelot.

Arthur sat back down, smiling a little at the excitement that swept the hall. 

“The gods will have listened to your promise, Arthur, and will hold you accountable,” Morgana told him, her eyes shining. “You have my full support. This is a task worthy of a king and a hero.”

“And worthy of an epic poem,” Merlin added. His eyes were shining, too.

Morgana frowned, but Arthur grinned. “You'd better stay with us till the dragon is dead and you can write poetry about it, master bard. In the meantime, my old bard is snoring in the corner over there, and I'd scarcely call the noises Geoffrey makes now entertaining. Won't you sing us a fitting song for celebrations and for drinking Yule?”

“Gladly, King Arthur.” 

Merlin looked around with quick eyes. Locating an empty seat on a bench nearby, he sat down and started strumming his harp, his head cocked like that of a bird's as he listened intently to the tones from his instrument.

“I still think he's not telling the truth about himself,” Morgana said.”But I will say no more about it, now there's a dragon-hunt to plan.”

At that moment Merlin started singing an ancient lay. His bard's voice was distinct, soothing yet resonant, and it carried well. 

_“Words I overheard a maiden,_  
_high-minded, speaking_  
_golden-haired, white-sleeved,_  
_with a glossy-beaked raven._

_Wise thought her the valkyrie,_  
_who'd welcome ever_  
_tidings from bright-eyed ones,_  
_she who birds' speech knew well... “_

Arthur leaned back in his seat with a smile, already quite enchanted. Even Morgana seemed captivated by the music and fine singing as the tale of an ancient king unfolded in verses spoken in conversation between a raven and a valkyrie.

The Yule celebrations lasted far into the night, according to custom and tradition, and the gods had no reason to be displeased with Camelot's dedication to the Yule festival.

* * * 

Merlin stayed on in Camelot, and became well liked by young and old. When he sang, he had the power to conjure up images and emotions. His voice encompassed everything from the deepest grief to happy love's joys and delights. He sang sweet, ribald verses to cheer people during the cold nights when winter storms raged outside. His tales about the animals in the forest and their secret lives delighted the children. He made funny spur-of-the-moment ditties about events at the manor, even if it was no more than the breakfast porridge being scorched. And after a long day's weapon-play, the warriors never got tired of hearing his lays about gods and heroes, kings and battles.

Arthur would call for him too, and have him recite a few poems or just play the harp in the evening, soft chords that seemed to ease the minds of all that heard them. If Arthur happened to be alone in the High Seat while Morgana was elsewhere, he would speak with Merlin for some time, but they always talked in voices too soft for anyone to hear their words.

Otherwise Arthur was busy planning the dragon quest. His scouts came back from Essetir, eager to tell the king all that they had learned among the villagers who had survived attacks. Morgana sat by, listening to their tales with keen ears, and asking questions when she wasn't satisfied that they'd gotten the facts right.

The dragon was an immense beast, much like a coiled serpent, but with wings like those of a large bat. At the first sight of enemies or prey, it would spew forth a rain of venom, strong enough to melt armour and kill every living being within reach. Its scales were hard as iron, and a lash of its tail could crush rocks. It seemed to have no vulnerabilities except perhaps a soft under-belly, which it took care never to expose, slithering forward on the ground like a huge snake when it moved. 

No-one knew for certain what the origins of such a terrible monster could be. Some tales claimed that the beast was none other than the former King Kilgharrah of the northernmost kingdom, cursed by the gods for his immense greed and gold-hunger. 

“I do believe that,” Morgana mused. “I met Kilgharrah once, as a small girl travelling with father. He paid me no mind, of course, but I watched him. He was half a dragon already. His eyes glowed red.”

Arthur tapped his fingers on the table, thinking out loud. “I need to lure the beast out of its protected den unto open ground, obviously. That much should be easy. Gold will do the trick. But then...”

“You need to stop it from using its venom,” Morgana said.

“While I somehow get close enough to put a sword through its belly,” Arthur agreed. 

Morgana looked at him, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “I have an idea.”

* * * 

Spring had come to the valleys and forests of Essetir. Most of the snow had melted, and the first flowers had their bright buds ready. Nevertheless an icy wind still whispered around the high crags that hid the dragon's den.

The monster slept underground, resting on its golden treasure and finding comfort in dreams of bright jewels and red blood.

Suddenly a high-pitched scream tore through the air, followed by the sound of pitiful crying.

“Help me! Oh, save me! Is there no-one here to hear my plea?”

For all his malicious caution, the dragon was intrigued. As the sounds of weeping and wailing continued, he slithered from the heap of gold and emerged from the hidden den. Moving carefully among the big boulders on the mountainside, he kept probing the smells on the air with his forked tongue. 

Down in a ravine, on the far bank of a still-frozen brook, a young woman was kneeling. Her long, dark hair was in disarray and tumbled freely down her back. Her fine dress was dirty and torn. She was weeping in despair, her head in her hands. 

The dragon lifted his huge, horned head and hissed at her. 

The woman jumped, looked up in fear, and seemed to want to crawl away. Now a beautiful golden torque around her neck was clearly visible. She wore golden arm-rings, too. 

The dragon looked around, studying the surroundings, tasting the air. There were no-one else to be seen, and there was no smell of men and their horses.

“What are you doing here, woman, and why are you wailing?”

The dragon's voice rumbled like a rock-slide in the mountains, but he spoke in the common tongue. 

The woman looked up, reaching out towards him in a pleading gesture, wringing her hands. “Please don't hurt me! Please, won't you show me the way to the nearest village? I'll reward you with this arm-ring if you do!” 

Drawing a shaking hand across her wet eyes, she hiccuped with fear and exhaustion. “A band of robbers attacked my escort and killed all the men. They wanted me for my gold and riches! I... I managed to hide, and I ran, and ran, but now I'm lost!”

The dragon slithered closer, more of its huge bulk appearing in plain sight. “And where were you going, lady, with all your gold?”

“To Camelot, to meet with King Arthur. He is looking for a wife and queen. Please... please...”

The dragon laughed, the echo of his harsh mirth rolling back and forth between the rocky crags. “How sad a fate. A pretty little queen-to-be, running from robbers to end as my prey.”

The woman sobbed once, trying and failing to keep herself under control. She trembled violently as the dragon approached her, sliding across the gravel, the large wings flaring above his back. 

“Please, no, please – I'll give you all my gold, just let me live, and help me, please....” 

She was so beautiful, and so frightened. A lovely morsel of fresh young blood, bedecked with gold and jewels. What could be more tempting? What better way to celebrate spring? The dragon moved out onto the gravel of the far bank and reared up across the frozen brook, his maws opening wide, ready to strike and to bite his victim in two and be done. Just as the huge head came down, striking like that of a viper, there was a strange clinking, grating sound, and then the most immense pain. A flame seared his belly. Halting the downward strike in mid-motion, the dragon reared back up, roared in anger, and looked around, his tail lashing furiously. 

The weeping, helpless woman had suddenly found her courage. As the dragon struck, she rolled to the side, lightning-quick. She'd jumped to her feet and was speeding towards the cover of a boulder upstream, her dress held out of the way and her legs pumping furiously. 

In a rage, sensing now at last the ruse he'd fallen for, the dragon opened his jaws wide to spew all his venom after her as she ran. But there was a new pain in his gut, a searing, unbearable fire, and he crashed to the side, thrashing from side to side, roaring to split mountains, tearing at the ground, and cracking rocks into tiny pieces. He had lost the ability to control his strength and powers. 

In front of him in the middle of the brook, in an opening where an ice sheet had been pushed to the side, was a mail-clad warrior. The sword in his hand was stained black, the tip dripping dragon's heart-blood. A spray of mud and gravel stained his face, flying rocks dented his mail, but he stood tall and fair, never flinching at the dragon's violent convulsions. His hair shone like gold in the cold morning light. 

Now the monster understood the extent of his own folly, but it was too late. Spasms still shook the huge body, but he was mortally wounded. It was a question of very little time.

The woman who had fooled him so grievously had stopped in her tracks, and was now walking back with measured strides to stand at the warrior's side. They were grinning at each other. Dirty and dishevelled, they embraced, safe in the knowledge of victory and glory. 

The dragon focused his slit-yellow eyes one last time and looked at the couple in front of him. The rush of the danger they had faced made them cling together, laughing with joy. 

As with all of his kind, the moment of death lent the dragon clarity of vision and the power of prophesy, his last words nevertheless the product of an ever-malicious mind. 

“Arthur Pendragon, greetings,” he wheezed. “You have bested me, you and your sister. Morgana Pendragon, so should you rightfully be known. I suppose King Uther never told you two that he fathered you both?”

Arthur and Morgana pulled apart abruptly and stood before him like wooden statues, staring in disbelief at the monstrous head, its blackened, vicious tongue lolling out of its mouth. 

The dragon laughed for the last time. “And so you two may well find less joy in the slaying of me than you expected.” 

He exhaled and rolled to the side, the limp bulk covering a goodly stretch of land, his greenish armour of scales going dull, and the wings stretched wide and powerless in death. The carcass immediately started to give off a stench of putrefaction.

From the sky there came the piercing, sorrowful cry of a falcon.

* * * 

Arthur went to get his men who were hiding far down the mountainside.

He returned on horseback, leading a group of his warriors. They had Morgana's steed and a number of pack horses in tow. 

Morgana waited for them close by the dead dragon, studying the fallen monster as if it held the answers to all the riddles of her life. In her right hand, she held something wrapped in a piece of cloth ripped from the train of her dress. Black fluid was oozing through the fabric, dripping to the ground by her feet.

“Morgana!” Arthur called, riding up. “Is all well? What is that?”

Morgana looked up at him, her face strangely impassive. “The dragon's heart,” she said. “Such a thing holds potent magic for those who know how to unlock it and wield it.”

“And you do?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

She looked from Arthur to the group of warriors, nodded to them and pointed. “The dragon came from up there. His lair should not be far off.”

The unwelcoming terrain and the stinking dragon carcass made the horses want to bolt. The men were all uneasy. But they found the beast's den without difficulty, and soon had his golden treasure packed up in many bags and boxes which they lashed onto the pack-horses' backs.

As soon as they could, they all mounted up. Arthur led his men away from the dragon's cold and bleak domain. 

Behind them, as they rode away, a crowd of carrion birds circled the slain dragon, the air filled with their hoarse cries and bickering. There would be a feast for both ravens and wolves in the mountains that night.

Arthur and Morgana hardly spoke a word to each other on the long trek down the mountain to their camp. Both seemed beset by heavy minds. 

Their strangely sombre mood impacted and worried the warriors. Despite the heroic deed they had had some small part in and all the gold they were bringing home, there was little banter and less laughter among the men, even when the evening ale was being passed around by the camp-fire. 

And so it was a surprisingly quiet and serious group of riders who returned home to Camelot from their big quest. 

They were met by jubilation and loud praise along the way and at the royal manor. The news ran before them. 

The king and the Lady Morgana smiled and waved, greeting their people all along the way and accepting the accolades at the royal manor with grace. Yet as they sat side by side in the High Seats, presiding over the celebrations in the great hall, a gulf seemed to have opened between them.

* * * 

“Do you believe the dragon's words?” Arthur pushed aside the trencher of dried meat, cheese, and bread and looked at Morgana, sitting beside him at high table for the evening meal. “He wanted to harm us. It's likely nothing more than a cruel lie.”

“I know,” Morgana said, turning to look him full in the face at last. “His dying vision may have revealed no more to him than our names. Still, it haunts my thoughts.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

“Nothing that is certain. I do recall how Uther agreed to my going to stay with Morgause, when you grew up and once you and I were growing - closer. He had opposed my wanting to become a völva before, and it surprised and gladdened me that he suddenly changed his mind. Now we may have learned his reason for wanting me away from here.”

“But why wouldn't he have told the truth and welcomed you as his daughter?”

“Why indeed. Uther wasn't an easy man. It was difficult to understand him, and to live near him.”

“I would have been happy to welcome you into the clan.”

“I have lived long with the loss and loneliness of being clanless. If my birthright was stolen from me by a lie, I cannot soon forget it, nor forgive it.”

They sat for a moment in silence. 

Morgana shook her head. “I am older than you, Arthur. While Gorlois lived, Uther probably wanted to avoid a feud. Later on, perhaps he feared I would claim the kingdom if he acknowledged me a Pendragon. 

Arthur sighed. “Well, we may never know for sure, but it changes everything. Just the possibility of it... we cannot marry now. Such a union would be cursed. Don't you agree?”

Morgana looked down and didn't immediately respond. 

Low and pleasant music drifted towards them from further down in the hall. Merlin was sitting near the great doors on the bench along the wall, his fingers caressing the strings of his harp, playing a beautiful yet simple melody. Now he also started humming the song that went with the tune, a sad little ditty of love found and lost.

Morgana's eyes were black in her pale face when they eventually sought Arthur's. “If you cannot love me, who would you have instead?”

Arthur hesitated. His glance slid away, and he looked at Merlin, seemingly lost in his own sweet singing and soothing music. 

“I cannot say, Morgana,” Arthur murmured. “It's always just been you for me.”

Morgana followed his eyes. If possible, she turned even paler. She said no more, but soon afterwards left the table.

* * * 

The next day Arthur came riding back from the coast in the late afternoon. He'd been there to witness Camelot's longships put out to sea for the season, giving his final orders to the chief warriors and leaders aboard the war-ships. Some of the ships were going on trading missions or carrying messages. Others were going abroad for a summer of raiding and hopefully, if the fates were kind, would discover new lands for the taking.

Arthur's personal longship, the magnificent royal _Golden Dragon_ , remained by the wooden wharf until further notice from the king. For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to jump aboard and set out at once with his warrior guard, but he collected himself and stepped back. 

But the other ships were off, rows of freshly painted shields along their sides. The firm rhythmic strokes of many pairs of oars brought the sleek vessels into deeper waters and away from Camelot. 

The crowd of well-wishers at the shore had been large. Warriors who were to stay at home, craftsmen and farmers, the warriors' women who would not follow them overseas, - all of them thronged the shore, waving and calling out wishes for the gods to see the ships safely back home in the fall. 

To the surprise of many of those present, Morgana had not accompanied the king.

Merlin also remained at the manor. When Arthur entered the hall and signalled for a servant to bring him mead, Merlin was sitting with his harp in his usual place. He looked up, observing Arthur as he strode towards the solitude of the High Seat.

Merlin had been quick to notice the king's mood of late. In response, he'd taken greater care to play music and recite poems more fitting for a royal hall's entertainment - descriptions of Camelot's wonders and beauty, as well as epic tales about the adventures of gods and heroes.

He studied Arthur now, and after a moment, got up to approach the High Seat. 

“My lord, may I have a few words?”

Arthur lifted his hands as if to wave him away, but instead ended up beckoning him closer, his voice surprisingly kind despite his harried look. “What is it, Merlin?”

“I have started working on the poem about the dragon-slaying. As I once promised, I want to praise your achievements, so your fame will grow and live on. I have talked to several of your warriors who saw the dead monster and visited its lair, but they cannot tell me what happened when the dragon was vanquished.”

Merlin's hands caressed the harp-strings. He looked into Arthur's eyes. “Would you tell me about the dragon-slaying?”

Arthur leaned back in his seat, drinking deeply from his mead-horn. His eyes focused on something distant, and his expression was morose. “Let honour fall where it's due. The Lady Morgana is the real heroine of that tale. The dragon died because he made the fatal mistake of underestimating a courageous and clever woman.”

Merlin tilted his head, his eyes going wide with curiosity and questions. When Arthur didn't immediately speak again, Merlin leaned forward. 

“You look as if your heart is heavy, Arthur. It pains me to see it. Did the dragon harm you in any way? Did he cast a spell on you?”

“You're as impertinent as ever, bard. What do you know of dragons? Why should a king tell you his affairs?”

“I only want to help.”

“The dragon said...” Arthur grimaced. “Never mind. Morgana lured the dragon from his den, I stabbed him from below when he slithered across a frozen brook. I'd hidden under the ice. That is all you need to know. Add the usual poetic flourishes and grand words, and you have your poem.”

Merlin nodded, but made no effort to get up and leave. “Dragons are devious creatures. When their other powers have been overcome, they can still wield words as a weapon, even at death's very door.” 

Arthur's head came up sharply. He studied Merlin closely, but the young bard seemed lost in thoughts. 

His hands danced across his harp, making it sing. “I'll play for you a while, Arthur, if it pleases you. Music lightens the heaviest burden and eases many sorrows.”

Arthur looked tired. He closed his eyes. “It pleases me very much,” he murmured. “Sing for me, Merlin.”

Merlin's gentle, mellifluous voice was like balm on a raw wound. This time his songs were not about grand deeds, but about matters of the heart, about doubts, love and longing. His quiet voice and the soft harp chords worked a singularly calming magic. He imbued every word and every tone with hope and warmth and the comforting assurance that fate might prove kind in the end. 

His last song was the well-known lay of the god Freyrs's longing for his beloved Gerdr, but Merlin had changed several of the verses. 

_"Speak to me, friend, foremost among men,_  
_For now I want to know;_  
_Why do you sit here, in your wide halls,_  
_Downcast, my liege, and alone?_

_A falcon I'd give you to fly through the dark_  
_And through magic flickering flames,_  
_And your sword bespell so it fights of itself_  
_When my worthy hero wields it._

_How may I tell you, young king most brave,_  
_Of all my grief so great?_  
_Though every day the bright sun dawns,_  
_It never lights my longing.”_

The last chords died, the harp-strings going still almost reluctantly. Merlin sat in silence, his head bowed. 

At length Arthur stirred. It was as if he woke from a dream. His expression as he looked at Merlin was unguarded and filled with wonder. Slowly he pulled a heavy gold ring set with a blood-red garnet from his finger. The stone had been carved with the Pendragon crest.

“Have this now as reward for your song, Merlin. Never have I been so moved by music.”

Merlin's lips pulled up in a smile as he accepted the ring, but his eyes were serious. “It brings me happiness that I managed to speak to your mind, Arthur.”

He drew a deep breath, and sat up straight on the bench. “Now I must ask permission to leave you for a while. There is an urgent matter that I need to attend to, and I have delayed far too long.”

“You want to leave me – leave Camelot?” Arthur asked, surprised and disappointed.

“I do, my lord. But I will return when my errand is done.”

“Well then, of course you may leave. You will be missed. Do not tarry on your way.”

“You have my promise. I will return to you.” Merlin got up and bowed. He smiled in an effort to lighten the heavy mood. “And when I get back, the first poem you hear from my lips will surely be in praise of bold King Arthur, the bane of dragons.”

The servants and warriors who went about their business in the hall, getting ready for the evening meal, were amazed to see their king stand up and reach out to the bard, taking his hand as if they were equals. 

“Fare you well and stay safe till we meet again,” Arthur said. Merlin bowed once more and hurried to the door.

In the yard, he nearly collided with Morgana, who was walking back to the hall from the weaving-house, a large shawl wrapped around her to hide her royal finery from view. She looked him up and down. “Where are you going in such a hurry, master bard?” 

Merlin bowed to her and clasped his harp to his chest as if it were a shield. “My lady, I am leaving Camelot for a while.”

“Is that so? A very wise decision, I think. As it is often said; 

_“A guest must depart again on his way_  
_not stay in one place forever;_  
_love turns to loathing if long he sits_  
_by the hearth in another man's home.”_

Merlin knew the poem well enough. Its ancient wisdom supposedly had been handed down to men from Odin himself. He looked her straight in the eye and nodded, but didn't speak in reply. 

They went their separate ways without a backwards glance. Morgana entered the hall. Merlin left the manor that same evening, and no-one knew where he went, or why.

* * * 

The year continued in its steady circle. Spring moved towards fertile summer, and the great goddess Freyja was celebrated both in the fields and at the hof. The fields had been plowed and made ready to receive the golden grain. The weather turned warm.

Arthur spent time riding out with his warrior guard to uphold order and peace throughout the land. They located and vanquished several bands of brigands and outlaws who had long been troubling the outlying villages.

He also made a point of visiting the manors of his earls. For a young king, it was especially important to stay in frequent contact with the nobles of the land, so that they had no reason and no opportunity to form close attachments with other kingdoms. Arthur met much hospitality among his subjects. The dragon-slaying had earned him respect, and on his travels he was generous with gifts from the dragon's hoard of gold. 

Back home at the royal manor, he would ride out for day-long hunts or join in the battle-training of newly recruited warriors. 

Morgana meanwhile kept herself busy managing the manor, overseeing the work and organizing the seasons and festivals ahead. She joined the warriors for weapon-play more frequently than before, and she fought as fiercely as any valkyrie. 

A fair amount of her time was otherwise taken up with weaving long, colourful tapestries depicting gods and heroes, processions and battles. She intended them as new decorations to replace the old ones at their hof, she said. In that sacred place, it would be of special significance that a völva had made the tapestries honouring the gods and powers. 

Her work in the weaving-house gave Morgana time alone with her own reflections. Sometimes she'd work furiously, nearly attacking the large loom with her shuttle. Sometimes her hands would hang idly at her sides, and the loom remained untouched while she stood in front of it, her thoughts wandering down paths that had nothing to do with weaving. What was on her mind found expression in her tapestries, where misshapen, writhing creatures and strange shapes wielding weapons of war were to be seen among revellers and gods. 

The fine woollen threads she used for her weft had been spun by the women of the manor during the long winter months. Morgana had learned herb-lore during her years with Morgause, and she took a hand in dying their yarn herself, to ensure she got the exact shades and colours that she wanted. 

She was inspecting the quality of several newly-dyed batches in the field behind the weaving-house, one of her women in tow, when they heard a horse approaching and saw a rider dismounting at the end of the field.

“Sister, I have arrived.”

Morgana ran to Morgause, embracing her tightly. She collected herself quickly, though, and turned to her serving-woman. “I will speak with the Lady Morgause in private. Leave us.”

The woman curtsied and scuttled off, clearly unnerved by the presence of two völvas.

Morgause was dressed for travel and battle, wearing a mail coat, long hooded cloak, and leather boots. She wore both her wand and her sword at her belt. Her golden hair cascaded freely down her back. Her status as a völva meant that, unlike other grown women, she'd never wear a coif. Neither would Morgana. 

“Once I got your summons, I travelled here as quickly as I could.”

“I am grateful, sister.”

“You do not look well, Morgana. These dark smudges under your eyes...”

“I have had trouble sleeping lately.” 

Morgana looked around. There was no-one near them outside the ring of manor houses, but there were workers in the far fields and a group of men building stone fences in the distance. “Walk with me, if you will. There are many ears too near for my comfort.”

They followed a path that led from the manor, along a stone fence and towards the Pendragon clan's burial mounds. Beyond them, there was a copse of elms, oaks and birches. The trees sported fresh green leaves now, and bird-song filled the air. This was the place where Morgana would practice her seidr when required. They would be able to speak in confidence there.

“Tales of the dragon-slaying have long since reached me, Morgana. I wanted to see the deed for myself, so I scryed. My visions only showed me brief glimpses, but that was enough. I saw your courage. I am proud of you.”

Morgana sent her tutor and sister völva a bleak smile. “Yes, the dragon, cursed be his memory. The monster toppled both my world and my future before he died. Well did he manage to avenge his own death.”

Tersely and without embellishments, she told Morgause of the dragon's words to herself and Arthur, and described her discussion with Arthur after their return to Camelot.

Morgause took her hand in a firm grip, looking her in the eye. “You are King Uther's elder child, sister? You should have been his heir?”

“I believe so,” Morgana sighed. “I wish I had a way to be sure.”

Morgause considered this, tapping a finger against her lower lip. “There are powerful magics that we might try. We could conjure forth King Uther's spirit to make him answer. But the dead that are called back are malevolent and treacherous. There is danger in it for us and the manor, and we'll likely be none the wiser for taking such a risk. We could also petition the gods, but they are frequently ambiguous in their responses to humans, when they deign to notice us at all. I cannot promise you that seidr will give you certainty.”

“I _need_ certainty,” Morgana said. “My anger and resentment are tearing me apart.”

“If you did have certainty, what then? Uther is dead. Your anger cannot reach him.”

“He made me believe I was clanless. Alone in the world, with no-one but myself to rely on. He denied me my birthright and stole my dignity. He looked me in the face as I grew up, and lied to me, his daughter, every day with every word he didn't say and every truth he suppressed.” 

Morgana's voice had grown louder. She drew a deep breath. “I want what is rightfully mine.”

“You want the kingdom,” Morgause nodded. “And you want revenge. Of course you do. Having been denied your place in the clan, revenge is no less than your sacred duty.”

Morgause reached for Morgana's hand, squeezing it encouragingly. “You are proud and strong, sister. You'll make an excellent queen.”

“I had intended to rule at Arthur's side, the two of us as equals. We were to marry. He cares for me; the dragon's words hit him hard.”

“His concern and disappointment will die with him,” Morgause shrugged. 

“I think he has found a way to ease his hurt,” Morgana said, her voice bitter and her expression bleak. “There is a young bard who has caught his eye, and who never fails to brighten his mood. Arthur is very fond of the boy.”

“He's already found consolation for his broken heart? How sweet,” Morgause scoffed. “Are they lovers?”

Morgana hesitated. “I don't think so. Not yet. But there's something fey and secretive about Merlin. His rich voice and his bard's skill almost make me think he must have taken lessons from Bragi himself.”

“I'd like to meet him.”

“He's left the manor. I don't know where he went, and neither does Arthur, apparently. He's moping.”

Morgause shook her head, impatient. “Well then. Uther is dead. The only way to be avenged on him now is to kill his son and heir, and so to destroy Uther's heritage and his intended successor. You know this. Uther lied to you and robbed you of clan and kingdom for Arthur's sake. Arthur must be the one to pay.” 

Morgana looked down, her face going pale. “You're right, and yet I cannot do such a thing, Morgause. Not without certainty, at least. Arthur - we grew up together. He is still my... my friend. And he had no part in his father's lies.”

“Yet he gained a kingdom because of them,” Morgause said, her voice harsh. “Morgana, as long as he is alive, it would be a never-ending struggle for you to win the kingdom and keep it. Your rule would be at constant risk. He'd surely never yield Camelot to you, and he has a group of very loyal warriors. You cannot afford to let him live.”

“I need certainty,” Morgana repeated. 

They stood for a moment without speaking. In stark contrast to the darkness of their talk, they were surrounded by jubilant bird-song, and bright sunlight filtered through the leaves from above.

“No decision needs be made today,” Morgana said. “I have been pondering this for weeks. One more day will make no difference. Come back with me now. You must be hungry and thirsty.” 

Just as they turned towards the path back to the manor, they heard a falcon's sharp cry. 

Both women looked up to see the bird speeding in their direction. It folded its wings and went into a rapid dive, approaching them like a bolt from the skies. 

Morgause gasped. “That's no ordinary falcon! It's...”

They could both see that the falcon was growing bigger as it descended. When it landed, it was as big as a man. The creature looked at them, lifted a wing that suddenly turned into a hand, and threw back the bird's head like the hood of a cloak. A few feathers drifted to the ground.

“Merlin!” Morgana exclaimed.

“This is Merlin the bard?” Morgause's eyes narrowed.

Merlin shed the falcon shape as if it were a cloak. Once off his shoulders, it rapidly shrunk so that he could put it in the pocket of his breeches.

“Lady Morgana, Lady Morgause,” he said politely. “I have returned from my mistress, who is your mistress, too. I serve the great goddess, the Lady Freyja. She has ordered me to tell you the truth without delay.”

“The falcon cloak is hers,” Morgause said. It was a statement, not a question.

Merlin nodded. “Lady Morgana, my mistress sent me to Camelot as soon as I reported that you intended to marry King Arthur. I heard you speaking with him before Yule, under the old pine in the snow. The goddess watches over all her priestesses. She wishes you well, she wouldn't let you enter such a marriage without revealing the truth that Uther hid from you.”

Morgana turned very pale. “The truth?”

“Lady Freyja wants you to know that you are indeed Uther's daughter. Arthur is your brother. I should have told you this as soon as I arrived in Camelot, for that was my mission.” 

Merlin blushed, suddenly looking very young and quite sheepish. “I delayed my task, because I was distracted. I wanted to... Well, I tarried in order that I might stay close to the king for a while as an ordinary bard. That was a grave mistake. Once the dragon revealed the truth to you, I wasn't sure of the best course of action. I had to return to Folkvangr and my mistress to ask her forgiveness and her orders. She was not gentle when I told her I had failed her.” Merlin shuddered.

Morgause placed a comforting arm around Morgana's shoulders. The younger woman was shaking. “Whatever punishment she meted out was hardly sufficient,” she said coldly. “Much heartache, doubt and grief would have been avoided if you'd done your duty, bard.”

“I know. I am sorry.”

“You have finally told me the truth. What has the goddess told you to do next?” Morgana asked.

“She told me to let fate take its course,” Merlin replied. 

“Will you also tell Arthur of this knowledge that you kept to yourself for far too long?”

“He deserves to know,” Merlin's tone of voice was both pleading and insistent, as if he was continuing a lengthy quarrel.

“Tell me, Merlin,” Morgause said, “did you overhear me speaking with Morgana just now, before we were aware of you?”

Merlin seemed taken aback at this sudden shift. “Eh...no! No! I did not.”

“That's good,” Morgause said with a smile, relaxing. “It was a private talk that concerns no-one but the two of us.” 

Morgana sent her a look, but did not speak.

Morgause gestured in the direction of the royal manor. “I have more to discuss with my sister. If you want to go find the king, you do not need to wait for us.”

Merlin's face lit up with relief. He bowed to them both, and hurriedly turned to leave the clearing. 

Reaching into the pouch she had at her side, Morgause pulled out a thin, shimmering chain. With a word of command, she threw it at Merlin's back. Her eyes turned golden for a moment.

The chain whipped through the air at lightning speed and wrapped itself tightly around Merlin, pinning his arms to his body, and making him stumble to his knees. 

“We can't let you leave, master bard,” Morgause said. “How gullible you are.”

Twisting around on the ground, Merlin faced the two women. His eyes glowed, and he opened his mouth. 

Morgause took two hurried steps forward, balled her fist, and knocked Merlin out cold with a swift blow to the head. The young bard crumpled and fell to the side, his prone form cushioned by green grass and wild-flowers. It happened so quickly, Morgana had no time to move. 

“He obviously overheard our talk, Morgana, and he was going to use magic on us. Who knows how powerful he is?” 

“He's the messenger of the goddess! We cannot keep him or do him harm, Morgause.”

“Not for long, at any rate. The time has come for you to decide what you will do, Morgana. Do you want the kingdom? Do you crave revenge? If so, you must act now!”

Morgana hesitated for a heartbeat, looking down at Merlin. She made her decision. “I want the kingdom. But I want something more than mere revenge. I want what should have been, and I want what will follow after.”

Telling Morgause of her plan and her wishes, Morgana already looked calmer and more at ease. She had been freed from the long burden of indecision and doubt. Now the way ahead was clear to her.

Morgause took her sister völva's words in stride, but shook her head nevertheless. “I will do what I can to help you. Yet this would require seidr more powerful than either of us possesses.”

“I know, but I have the means for us to add to our power. I have the dragon's heart in my keeping.”

Morgause's eyes went wide. “I should have known! Well done, sister.”

Nodding, Morgana stepped across the unconscious Merlin and made for the manor. “Wait here while I go fetch us the heart. Soon, the most powerful seidr will be at our command for three full days!”

With that she left the clearing, walking briskly towards the manor, a strange little smile playing on her lips.

* * * 

They were kneeling on the grass, eyes closed, their joined hands cupped to form a shallow bowl that held the dragon's black heart. Both were swaying slightly as Morgause intoned an incantation, calling on the dark and powerful magic of strength and deceit that was at every dragon's core, a magic akin to that of the shape-changing trickster god Loki, and his son, the world serpent Jörmundgandr.

Her eyes glowing steadily, Morgause pulled out a sharp knife and carved three runes into the heart. Despite the time that had passed, black blood seeped from the cuts. 

In the middle of the clearing, a small fire was burning, its flames fanned into intensity by seidr. Now Morgause placed the dragon's heart above the fire, letting it roast there for a while. Both women kept chanting, concentrating on the black heart and the bright flames.

The ritual was taking its toll on them. They struggled to keep the flow of magic steady. Morgause's hand was shaking slightly as she intoned the final incantation while carefully cutting the dragon-heart in two. 

Morgana meanwhile used the sewing scissors dangling from her belt to cut a lock of hair from the head of the unconscious Merlin. She watched intently as the embers of their fire completely consumed the lock. Leaning in, she breathed deeply, whispering a brief spell as she inhaled the smoke and smell of burnt hair. 

The time had come. Each woman raised her half of the heart to her lips. Their eyes locked as they bit into the scorched flesh simultaneously, chewing and swallowing, little by little devouring it all. 

The magic they were consuming seared them from the inside out, becoming one with their own, increasing it tenfold. 

Her eyes now glowing with a stronger fire, Morgana gasped and fell to the ground, trembling with the aftermath of absorbing so much power. Morgause was still kneeling. Her eyes were closed, her face hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shaking. Neither of them could move or speak.

At long last they regained control of their senses. 

Morgana stood up, drawing a weary hand across her forehead, looking over at the unmoving Merlin. “Night will be here soon, sister. Let everything be as we have agreed. It's time to act.”

* * * 

Arthur had sought his bed early. He was sound asleep when the door to his chamber opened, and someone quietly stepped inside.

With a warrior's quick reflexes, Arthur was immediately awake and alert, sitting up in bed, his hand reaching for Excalibur. The sword always hung from one of the dragon-head bedposts. 

There was a smoke vent in the roof above the hearth, but with summer approaching, no fire was necessary to heat the room. The sky above the vent was dark. His nightly visitor held up a small stone oil lamp, its pale light flickering across a well-known face. 

“Do not worry, Arthur. It's me – Merlin. I have returned.”

“Merlin?” Arthur threw aside his blankets and swung his bare feet over the side of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and blinked. “Why are you entering my chambers like a thief in the night? I could have killed you!”

Merlin didn't respond. He placed the lamp on a low shelf on the wall, pushing aside the fire-steel, flint, and tinder that always rested there. He paused for a moment, his back to Arthur, and then turned. Walking over with quiet steps, he sat down next to Arthur on the bed. 

Arthur frowned. “What time of night is it? Why didn't my guards announce you and ask leave to let you in? You have some audacity to approach the king like this!”

Merlin smiled at him, his eyes warm. “Oh, the guards - they know that I mean you no harm. And so do you.”

Arthur moved a little, taking time to settle himself better, and cleared his throat. He tried to lighten the mood. “Well, what do you want, Merlin? Are you here to recite the wonderful poem you've long ago promised me?”

“No,” Merlin said, moving closer and gently placing a hand on Arthur's thigh. Arthur was only wearing a linen undergarment. His skin was very warm. “I want to let my body speak to you instead. I want my every limb to sing to you.”

Arthur made no effort to move Merlin's hand. He didn't respond at once. Finally he said; “Have you had too much ale?”

“No,” Merlin whispered, leaning in. “Smell my breath, Arthur. If I am drunk, it's only on thoughts of you.” 

Arthur turned to look at the face so close to his, the bright eyes, the parted lips, the slight blush. With a groan, he pulled Merlin close and covered his lips with his own. 

It was a hungry, passionate kiss from the first. Each gave as good as he got. They tumbled backwards on the bed, hands scrabbling for purchase, bodies already moving to the same eager rhythm.

“I've longed for this,” Arthur gasped. “Merlin, you have stolen my heart and all my peace of mind!”

Merlin pulled back for a moment, a strange fire in his eyes. “Does that mean that you love me, Arthur?”

“Yes, Merlin. Yes, I do.”

Hiding his face in the crook of Arthur's neck, Merlin pushed aside the king's blond hair and kissed his way up to his ear, warm breath caressing the sensitive skin. 

“I needed to hear you say it,” Merlin murmured.

They had no more use for words. Soon they were naked, Merlin's clothes strewn across the bed and floor, a seam in his tunic ripped by Arthur's eager hands.

All the while kissing him hungrily, Arthur rolled on top of Merlin, rubbing against him. 

Merlin held him tight, and looked Arthur straight in the eye. He spread his legs wide, knees rising in a welcoming embrace.

Arthur struggled to hold back. “Merlin, we can't!” he panted. “It's too soon. I don't want to hurt you.”

“I – I have prepared myself. I am ready for you, Arthur. I want this. I want you. Do it.”

Merlin arched under Arthur, his feet pushing into the small of Arthur's back insistently, his hands pressing down on bare and sweaty skin, urging him on. “I need this. Do it!”

Arthur couldn't resist any more. He thrust forward with a groan. Their coupling was swift, messy and intense, neither having the experience or temperament to want the act to last. 

They disentangled while still shaking from the aftermath. For a while, their rapid breaths were the only sounds in the room. 

The oil lamp on the shelf was close to burning out. Its dying efforts made grotesque shadows chase flickers of frantic light across the timber walls.

At last Arthur sat up against the wall, reaching for Merlin. Yielding one hand to Arthur's firm grip, Merlin got up on his knees and turned to face him. 

“If these are the last words you hear in your life, Arthur, I want you to know that I love you,” Merlin said, his eyes sad. “There's never been anyone else for me than you, and there never will be.”

He reached out, placing a finger tenderly against Arthur's forehead, and hesitated for the tiniest of moments. “Now goodbye, brother dearest. _Sveve nu._ ” 

Morgana's eyes glowed.

Arthur didn't have time to react. He fell like a giant hit by a stroke of Thor's mighty hammer.

* * * 

The small wooden boat glided across the lake's calm surface without making a sound. Patches of mist dotted the water and obscured the small island they were approaching. An eerie peace rested over both the lake and the island. It was as if they were leaving Midgard behind for a secret, mysterious realm.

The vessel had neither oars nor sail, but Morgause drove it forward on a steady course. Morgana sat in front, dressed in her long cloak and mail, one hand resting lightly on Arthur's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart. She looked straight ahead, her face an impassive mask.

Small drops of moisture gathered like pearls on both women's raiment and chain mail, their long hair hanging damp and heavy down their backs. 

The final misty curtain parted, and their boat reached the shore. 

“Avalon,” Morgause said, her voice filled with reverence. “Few mortals have ever set foot on these sands. We're between worlds here, where magic lives and breathes.” 

They brought the sleeping Arthur ashore and carried him away from the boat. The small island was nothing more than a huge rock risen from the deep. There were no trees and only a few patches of coarse grass, and the bare rock was dotted with clumps of jagged and shimmering crystals. Here and there glimpses of tall marble buildings could be seen for a moment, like mirages in the mist, disappearing from view as quickly as they'd appeared. 

At the island's topmost point, there was an altar of sorts, a flat slab of rock. It had been hewed into a rough, oblong shape with a pattern of intertwined, many-limbed animals along its sides.

“The altar of the ancients,” Morgause whispered. “This is where we will leave Arthur to his rest, sister. Are you still quite certain that you do not rather want to see him dead?” 

“I am certain,” Morgana replied. “I want him to have the prospect of once returning to live the rest of his life among the people of Camelot, if the land still stands. Arthur has always been honourable and kind. I am repaying him with the chance of a future life, small though it be. It is up to the Norns to decide when he leaves this world for good. I will not take his life.”

Morgause nodded. She didn't argue. 

They placed Arthur's sleeping form on the stone altar, wrapping him in his long crimson cloak, and clasping his cold hands around the hilt of Excalibur. Morgana drew runes signifying rest, sleep, life, love and eternity on his forehead. 

They circled the altar three times, finishing the spells to keep Arthur sleeping on the island till the day when the gods would allow him to wake from his long rest.

At last Morgana leaned in and kissed Arthur's brows, looking at her sleeping brother and lover one final time. “Good-bye, Arthur. May you rest in peace, my love, and no darkness trouble your dreams. I will wed no other man, but the Pendragon line shall not fail.”

They returned to the shore, neither woman saying a word. There was a chill in the air. Morgana pulled her cloak closed and walked faster, her head down. She got into the boat while Morgause used her wand to create the final and most demanding spell of all. Completing a full round of the island, she drew a line in the sand along the water's edge, muttering incantations of protection and fire. If anyone, - whether moved by courage, love, or curiosity, - was ever audacious enough to try to set foot on the island, a sky-high barrier of fire would spring up at once, completely encircling Arthur. It would be impossible for any living being to reach him alive.

The prolonged flow of so much powerful magic made them weary. Morgause was pale, and nearly stumbled as she got into the boat and pushed it away from the shore. They had completed spells this day that would have been far beyond them if not for the dragon's heart.

The grey mists closed behind them, hiding the island of Avalon and the sleeping king from view. Arthur would likely be resting there forever. 

Morgana set her jaw and didn't once look back.

* * * 

When they cantered into the courtyard late the next day, the whole manor was in an uproar. Every warrior was armed, and a group of them were about to mount their horses. Servants stood around in groups, talking in hushed and worried voices. Several children who had been affected by the nervous mood were wailing loudly.

Every eye turned to Morgana as she dismounted and walked with measured steps towards the doors of the great hall. Leon came hastening through the crowd, but she signalled to him to stand back. She ascended the steps, and turned to face the people of Camelot. 

Everyone drew closer, some calling out Morgana's name or questions about the king. 

Morgause followed Morgana and positioned herself below her on the broad stone stairs, surveying the throng with steely eyes. 

Morgana raised her hand, and a hush fell over the manor. Even the children stopped crying. 

“My true name is Morgana Pendragon. I am Uther's daughter, and from this day forward I declare myself the queen and rightful ruler of Camelot. Those who will not accept my reign have one day to leave the kingdom. Those who want to stay will have to swear allegiance to me.” 

She paused, but no-one spoke. A stunned silence was all the reply she got. 

“Like my brother before me, I promise to be strong and fair, to reward loyalty and to strike down treachery. There will always be a Pendragon ruling this land. This is my time. I will see Camelot prosper. This I swear by the great goddess Freyja.”

“How do you know you're a Pendragon?” The voice from the back of the crowd sounded like Percival's. 

Elyan chimed in. “More importantly, how do _we_ know?”

“The goddess has confirmed it,” Morgana said. She didn't elaborate.

“Where is King Arthur? Have you killed him?” This time it was Gwaine. 

Morgana lifted her head proudly and stared down her nose at them all. “I have not killed my brother. But his rule is over, and he is not coming back.“

Morgause had had enough. “Queen Morgana has been with you for some time. You all know her and what she stands for. She's capable, wise and strong. She has foresight and fighting skills. She has healing hands and the support of Lady Freyja herself. You should all give thanks to the gods and goddesses for giving you such a ruler!” 

There was unrest in the crowd, and much muttering. Arthur's name was mentioned many times. Nevertheless the servants soon started drifting away, back to their duties. The manor was their home, no matter who ruled the kingdom. During her time as first lady of the land, Morgana had managed the large household both wisely and well. They liked and respected Arthur, and had expected him to rule for a long time. But fate was fickle, and kings were frequently brought down from one day to the next. If the Norns decreed this change, who were ordinary humans to object?

Many of the young and newly recruited warriors looked undecided. They were Arthur's men, and had sworn loyalty to him, but they were pragmatic. With the king gone, there was no-one left to be loyal to or take orders from. They admired strength, shrewdness and audacity. If Morgana had seized control, she was someone worth supporting.

Leon shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. He looked up at her, his hand resting proudly on the handle of his sword. “The night guards had clearly been overcome by magic. And magic must have helped you steal King Arthur away into the night as well. I call that cowardly. You should have challenged him to a fair fight. The gods will frown upon your actions, völva. I will never swear allegiance to you.”

“And neither will I,” came Gwaine's voice. 

In the end, none among Arthur's tight group of life guard warriors wanted to stay. Morgana told them to take their horses and their weapons and be gone.

Morgause meanwhile was arranging for news of the new queen to be sent to the nobles of the realm and to neighbouring kingdoms.

Morgana sat in the High Seat as the evening wore on, accepting the oaths of allegiance of the warriors who had decided to stay. 

Her rule had begun, and she intended to prove herself more than worthy.

* * * 

When Merlin awoke, he was covered by a blanket. He was still in the woodland clearing near the royal manor. Trying several times to sit up, he found it impossible. He was wrapped from shoulders to calves in Morgause's magic chain.

“Don't be so impatient,” a voice said. “Let me help you.”

Looking around, Merlin realized that the speaker was Morgana. He tried to roll away from her, but she gripped his shoulders firmly and hauled him up on his knees, standing back to study him. “Much as I might like having you kneel to me here for a long time, you will be set free as soon as I know you have recovered from Morgause's blow and the sleeping spell we had to use on you. I have no wish to harm or detain Freyja's messenger. I don't want to anger the goddess.” 

Merlin snorted derisively and made one more try to free himself from the chain, twisting around furiously, his eyes glowing as he uttered a breaking spell. But the chain held.

He gave up. “Morgana, what have you - “

“I am _Queen_ Morgana to you, master bird-bard.”

Merlin's eyes went wide. “What have you done to Arthur?”

“Arthur is gone. You will not see him again.”

“You two völvas – have you killed him? Killed your own brother with magic and deceit?” Merlin sounded frantic. “Arthur was a good and noble king. The goddess will punish you, she will punish you severely, be very sure of that!”

Morgana shrugged. Although she feigned indifference, red spots high on her cheeks gave away her agitation. 

“Arthur isn't...” she bit her lip and didn't finish the sentence. Shaking her head in exasperation at herself, Morgana only said, “Whatever the goddess thinks of my actions, that will be between her and me.”

Her green eyes flashed. “For years I believed myself clanless and alone. Uther denied me my due place and rank, but now his plans have failed, and I have made myself the head of clan Pendragon. Sometimes you've got to do what you think is right, and damn the consequences.”

During Merlin's efforts to escape the chains, a ring on a chain around his neck had worked itself free of his tunic. There was a glint of red. Noticing the golden object, Morgana stepped closer and leaned down. “That is Arthur's ring, is it not? I did wonder what had happened to it when he suddenly stopped wearing it.”

“He gave it to me freely,” Merlin said angrily. “It's mine.”

“I'm sure he did. And you will give it to me in turn. I will consider it compensation for all the havoc you created, when you didn't give me the goddess' message on time.”

Seizing the ring, Morgana lifted the chain over Merlin's head. She looked at the ring with its crimson Pendragon crest, a wry smile playing on her lips. “I will keep this safe until my son is old enough. He should wear it as proof of his lineage and in memory of his father.” 

“Your _son_?” Merlin was aghast. “Morgana, what have you done?”

“I have secured the future of clan Pendragon, and the line of succession. Don't be so sure Arthur wouldn't have wanted me to.”

Merlin found no words in response. He looked stunned.

“Well, enough of this. You seem sufficiently recovered.” Morgana turned her head. “It's time to set our little bird free, Morgause.”

“I agree. The sooner we are rid of him, the better. We do not need any more complications.” Morgause stepped out from behind the foliage that had hidden her from view. Eyes glowing, she gestured sharply, and the chain imprisoning Merlin fell at his feet. He was free.

He looked from one to the other of the women. 

“Leave us. Return to the goddess,” Morgause said. “Do not think you can fight us here. Our magic will easily overpower yours.”

“My powers mainly rest in my music and storytelling,” Merlin replied, his voice soft. “Joy and healing, love and comfort, wonder and inspiration. That is the magic of music. Your powers are very different, and I see now that they are dark and cruel, dangerous to others as well as to yourselves.” 

“Be that as it may,” Morgana said, refusing to be riled. “Leave now, and don't come back. I will find my court another bard. I need someone to chronicle my reign, after all.”

Merlin glared at her as he pulled the bird cloak from his pocket. In his hands it immediately grew large enough for him to put it on. Pulling the hood forward across his face, he was transformed once more into a falcon. 

Without warning the large bird spread its wings and launched itself forward at the two völvas, emitting a cry so piercing and loud that they both fell to the ground, covering their ears. 

Merlin soared upwards and disappeared from view, lost in the brilliance of the sun.

* * * 

Freyja's falcon cloak lent its wearer the guise of a bird of prey, but enhanced all abilities and senses far beyond those of an ordinary falcon's. It gave hearing nearly as keen as Heimdallr's, sight sharp enough to scan vast tracts of land in a moment, and speed so fast that its wearer could travel between worlds if need be. Not for nothing did Loki once borrow the cloak to travel in haste from Asgard to Jötunheimr to search for Thor's hammer when it had been stolen.

Merlin did not return home to Folkvangr the fair. 

He remained in the sky, crossing back and forth high above Camelot and the lands surrounding it, searching tirelessly. From up high he marked the location of the hidden forest camp of Arthur's band of loyal warriors. He saw the remains of the great dragon too, his bones picked clean of all flesh. The monster's long tail looked like a white line of spiteful runes against the grey rocks.

At last his search took Merlin to Avalon. He immediately sensed that he was close to his goal. Flying across the lake waters, he honed in on the island. Arthur's crimson cloak was clearly visible, and almost served as a beacon. Merlin cried out in joy. He had found what he was looking for. 

Circling the island and assessing the strong magic it radiated, Merlin flew too close. At once a sky-high barrier of red flames shot up. 

The falcon veered aside with a cry at the very last moment.

He continued to circle outside the ring of fire for a long time, his weary wings taking him round after round while he tried to discover a counter-spell to quell Morgause's fires, or a way to pass through the flames unscathed. He could see Arthur behind the veil of fire, sleeping on his slab of rock, his face calm, his eyes firmly closed, and his chest moving with the quietest of breaths. The magic that protected Arthur seemed impenetrable. Merlin screamed loudly in frustration. He was so near, and yet Arthur might as well have been worlds away. 

As he kept circling the island, daylight waned and the mists thickened above the lake waters. There seemed to be no solution to Merlin's predicament. 

Suddenly the falcon changed its course. Speeding towards the island as fast as the feathered cloak would allow, Merlin folded his wings and went into a steep dive towards Arthur's unmoving form. 

He shot through the encircling fire with a wild cry. The falcon cloak caught fire. Merlin fell from the sky like a burning arrow aiming straight for Arthur's heart. 

Crashing down next to the stone altar, Merlin was completely engulfed in flames. The feathers had shrivelled and been consumed by the fire. Merlin's own skin was burning, scorched black by the intensity of the heat. He threw himself forward across Arthur, kissed his cold lips passionately, whispered an awakening spell, and fell to the ground next to the altar. He was still ablaze, the pain making him convulse. 

Merlin couldn't save himself. He was dying.

Arthur opened his eyes and sat up slowly, trying to make sense of his surroundings and the terrible cries that had made his ears ring. The whole sky seemed to be on fire, but the flames shrunk and went out almost at once. Next to his cold stone bed something was still burning, though. There was an overpowering stench of burnt feathers and scorched flesh. 

The shape next to him emitted a pitiful whimper.

At first Arthur couldn't make out what he was looking at. Then he knew, like a knife to the heart. “Merlin! Oh gods, no! Merlin!”

Arthur scrambled down from the altar stone in a frenzy, looking around for something – anything – that might help save Merlin in this forbidding place. Then he raced to the shore, tore his cloak from his shoulders and dunked it in the lake water. Returning to Merlin, he rolled him in the soaking wet cloth, quenching the flames and cooling the deep burns. 

Sitting down on the ground, Arthur pulled Merlin into his lap and looked down on his blackened face. “Merlin! Stay with me!” 

Arthur found nothing else to say, nothing more to do. He stroked a gentle finger down Merlin's cheek, and was rewarded when Merlin opened his eyes a slit, the ghost of his old carefree smile forming on his lips. 

“You're awake, Arthur. Such powerful magic they used, but the spell is broken. I'm glad,” he croaked. 

“Don't...don't speak. Just rest here in my arms and I'll...”

“You'll heal me and save me?” Merlin coughed. “It's too late, Arthur. Just live...well, and... long.”

Merlin's voice faltered. He smiled up into Arthur's frantic eyes, and let his own eyes fall shut. Air rattled in his chest as he drew one last breath. Then he went limp. His head fell to the side. Merlin ceased breathing.

“No!” Arthur crushed Merlin to his chest, bending nearly double to shield the quiet body with his own. His tears dripped down on Merlin's face, forming wet streaks in the soot and ashes. 

Sheets of heavy grey fog drifted around the two of them, isolating them from the world beyond. Dusk would soon become night, and it would be too dark to see.

Rage welled up in Arthur. “Cursed be this evil fate! Cursed be this place and the powers that...”

“No,” a woman's voice said. “Hush. Do not be so hasty throwing irrevocable curses around.”

Startled, Arthur looked up. 

A slender young woman stepped out of the fog and night and stood in front of him. Her dark hair tumbled freely, framing a pretty face with large, liquid eyes. She was barefoot, and her dress was ragged, but nevertheless it was made of crimson cloth – the prerogative of kings and queens.

“I give you greetings, Arthur Pendragon. We meet at last.” 

Kneeling down by Arthur's side, she fixed her eyes on Merlin. She sighed. “This isn't good, is it? And the falcon cloak reduced to cinders!”

“He is -” Arthur had to stop to swallow a sob. “- he is dead.”

“No, he is not. Not until I proclaim it so.” 

Confused, Arthur found nothing to say. She seemed a mere slip of a girl, but he could see now that she was surrounded by a strange, shimmering light. And though she seemed to be wearing no jewellery, there was the distinct shimmer of gold at her throat. As he watched, her look flashed and changed , the pretty girl giving way for a brief moment to a tall and stern mail-clad valkyrie, fully armed. He blinked, and the young girl was back. 

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She shook her head, her attention on Merlin. She lifted her hand and slowly passed it down his body from head to toes. “Little bard, I haven't released you from my service. Come back to me.”

Merlin's skin started healing in front of Arthur's eyes. It knit together, smooth and pale, as if no fire had ever touched it. 

Merlin drew a breath, and moved a little in Arthur's arms. “Arthur?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“Merlin!” Arthur was in awe. He hugged Merlin tight, kissing his brow and the tip of his nose, grinning with joy and relief.

The girl nodded approvingly. “That's better.”

At the sound of her voice, Merlin opened his eyes. He took one look and sat up in a hurry, pushing out of Arthur's embrace. 

“My lady!” Throwing himself forward on his knees, Merlin glanced at Arthur and gestured urgently. “Arthur, why aren't you kneeling? You are in the presence of the great goddess, my mistress, the Lady Freyja.” 

“Merlin, you have disobeyed me again. What am I to do with you?” Freyja said, disregarding Arthur and looking down at Merlin's bowed head in exasperation. “Explain yourself.”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady. Everything I did, I did for Arthur. I willingly gave my life for his. He is worth a thousand of me.” 

A grey cat suddenly wound itself around Freyja's legs. She bent down to pick it up just as another one appeared. It sat down right next to her, its yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

“You love Arthur. He loves you,” Freyja stated, matter-of-factly. “Is that not so?”

“It is, my lady,” Arthur confirmed. 

Merlin nodded.

“Never let it be said that true love does not move me,” Freyja said, petting the cat in her arms. It started to purr. “I do not want lovers to suffer or be parted. Too well do I know the heartache and pain of such a loss. When my beloved Odr leaves me, my longing knows no bounds.” 

She closed her eyes, a shadow of grief crossing her fair face. A heavy tear-drop of pure gold slid slowly from under her lashes and fell to the ground. 

“I want to see your love conquer,” Freyja said. She looked at Arthur. “I will release Merlin from my service so that he may follow you, but only on one condition.”

Arthur brightened. “Name the condition,” he said.

“I give you this choice, Arthur: You can either have Merlin, or you can go back to fight Morgana for the crown. One or the other. You cannot do both.”

Arthur bristled. “Abandon Camelot? I cannot let go of my birthright and my people! I have a duty to them that I have to honour.”

“You will _not_ be abandoning your people,” Freyja said. “You will be leaving them in the hands of a very competent ruler from clan Pendragon. That Camelot is your birthright may be disputed. Know that Morgana is your sister, your father's daughter, and she is older than you. Her claim on the throne is valid.”

Arthur looked away to where Excalibur had been left on the ground. He shook his head. “I am the king of Camelot.”

The cat in Freyja's arms hissed at him. The goddess dropped the animal to the ground, impatient. "Morgana is my priestess. She has my support. She will be a good queen, and Camelot will thrive. This I foretell."

All at once she abandoned the guise of a pretty maiden and turned into a mature woman, tall, beautiful and regal, her dress every inch a queen's. A magnificent golden collar encircled her neck, its engraved patterns shimmering with jewels. Her eyes glowed. 

“I will not choose your fate or your course of action for you, Arthur Pendragon. Make your decision," Freyja said. "Do you want Merlin's love and a life of heroic deeds and adventure, or do you want a bloody civil war to ravage Camelot? Thor and Odin may well support you if you choose war, but be warned - I myself will honour the bond I have to my priestesses, and my brother Freyr will stand by me. You and I will be enemies. And perhaps of more importance to you; – since he is bound to my service, Merlin will be your enemy, too.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but closed it again without speaking. He looked torn. 

Freyja gestured to her cats. “Go fetch me my chariot,” she said. “We are leaving.”

The animals disappeared like ghosts in the night. 

Merlin had remained kneeling on the ground, studying Arthur intently, hope and fear in his eyes. 

Arthur turned to him. “What have you to say to this, Merlin?”

Merlin hesitated. “Only you can make this decision. But if we stay together, I know where we can find your loyal warriors, and your longship lies ready and waiting for you at the wharf. You are needed outside of Camelot. There are many people and many places in Midgard that cry out for a hero's helping hand, for someone who is brave and strong enough to fight dark forces and dangerous monsters.”

Arthur frowned at him. He walked over to pick up Excalibur. Avalon's magic made the enchanted steel shimmer. “And to think Morgana charmed my sword to my good fortune,” he said wryly. 

“The enchantment hasn't been revoked,” Merlin told him quietly. “I can feel its power. It will aid you in battle against all other adversaries than Morgana."

“Enough of this. I am leaving. Merlin, join me,” Freyja ordered. “You will stay put in Folkvangr from now on, and be my messenger no more.”

Merlin hung his head, but stood up to obey her command.

Arthur reached out, gripping Merlin's hand. “No,” he said. “Stay with me.” 

His stance and voice were proud as he faced Freyja. “Father didn't do right by Morgana, that much is clear. And she has opened her heart to me, perhaps more than she herself realizes. I know enough of her mind to be sorry for her and for what can never be. But lately, my lady, her actions have not been honourable. I have never known Morgana to resort to deceiving me before.”

“She craved revenge,” Merlin said. “Yet Uther is dead. Only you remained.” 

“I see.” Arthur sighed. “Vengeance was to be expected, once she had confirmation of the truth.” 

“She could easily have killed you, but chose not to,” Merlin continued. 

“What is past is past,” Arthur said firmly. “The history of clan Pendragon is between father, Morgana, and me, and I will say no more about it. But I will not let a clan feud tear Camelot apart.”

He pulled Merlin closer, smiling at the joy he saw dawning in Merlin's bright eyes. 

“I do not want to lose you a third time,” Arthur told him. “You gave your life to bring me back. I love you. Ungrateful would I be, and an uncaring fool, if I now told you goodbye to go fight Morgana for her throne.”

He turned to the goddess, looking at her over Merlin's shoulder. “I choose Merlin and the wide world,” he said. “I acknowledge that Morgana has a claim on Camelot. You have foretold that she will do the clan proud and be a strong ruler, a good queen of Camelot. Knowing Morgana, I fully believe it. Had I doubted you for a moment, I would have chosen differently.”

Freyja smiled, her inner light increasing to illuminate the entire island of Avalon. Her chariot and her cats were waiting on the other side of the altar. “Then I release Merlin from my service, and say farewell to you both. Live, love and enjoy your life together every day that the fates allow. You will always have a friend in me, as have all who find and embrace true love.” 

Stepping into the chariot, she threw Merlin a young girl's cheeky smile in parting. “You may keep my magic harp, little bard. Do not think I had forgotten it. Use it well.”

Freyja's chariot was already airborne. She was gone in a flash.

Darkness and fog rolled in, but Merlin and Arthur didn't notice. They only had eyes for each other, and every kiss they shared seemed to make Midgard a brighter, happier place.

* * * 

Queen Morgana Pendragon's reign lasted for many years. She was shrewd and strong, generous and just, and Camelot prospered under her rule. She never married, did not take lovers, and only had one child; - her son Mordred. She was highly respected and feared both as queen and as an increasingly powerful völva, and she enjoyed the protection of the great goddess Freyja all the days of her life.

Morgana died a very old woman, and was buried in her magnificent _drakkar._ A goodly part of the royal manor's riches, goods and gear, horses and livestock followed her into the burial mound. She would lack for nothing in the next world. Her burial chamber aboard the ship was decorated at all sides with colourful tapestries that she herself had woven. 

Though she was buried in her longship and could travel in the worlds beyond if she so desired, the people of Camelot did not wish for her to leave them. They wanted her continued protection. To ensure that she would stay, her ship in the mound was firmly anchored and tied to a boulder. 

Her memory and the tales of her life lived long among the people of Camelot.

After leaving Camelot behind, her brother Arthur lived a life of glory and adventure, and won renown everywhere. He travelled the width and breadth of Midgard, never staying in one place for long. Together with his brave group of faithful warriors, he vanquished monsters, fought giants, helped end wars, discovered new lands, and saved many who'd been wrongly afflicted by dark magic. Arthur and his men always acted with the utmost courage and honour. 

Where Arthur went, his beloved Merlin was right by his side. The two of them lived many happy days and nights together. 

The magic of Merlin's voice and harp gladdened all hearts. For every one of Arthur's heroic deeds, Merlin made a new ballad or epic poem, and in this way they both gained immortality and everlasting fame. 

Long after Merlin and Arthur had left the world, the songs and stories lived on, told and retold by the bards of every new generation. Children and grown-ups alike listened to the tales with stars in their eyes and hope in their hearts. 

And so it was that Arthur, though he relinquished the rule of a kingdom, became the true hero of his age, living his life to the full according to the ideals of his people and his gods: 

_Cattle die, and kinsmen die,_  
_And so one dies one's self;_  
_But a noble name will never die,_  
_If good renown one gains._

 _Cattle die, and kinsmen die,_  
_And so one dies one's self;_  
_One thing now that never dies,_  
_Is the fame of a brave man's feats._

  


*** * * The End * * ***

**Author's Note:**

>  **Terms and names:**  
>  _Völva_ \- Norse shamanic seeress/sorceress. The word means "wand carrier". Völvas were highly respected and feared members of Norse society. Wands have been found in a number of burials of high status Norse women. Völvas were also associated with weaving.  
>  _Valkyrie_ \- one of a host of female figures who ride out to choose those who will die in battle, and bring their chosen to Valhalla.  
>  _Seidr_ \- the form of magic practiced by völvas  
>  _Freyja_ \- the Norse goddess associated with love, sexuality, fertility, seidr, war and death  
>  _Folkvangr_ \- Freyja's realm  
>  _Drakkar_ \- a sleek viking longship/warship, frequently with a dragon's head and tail in the bow and stern  
>  _Midgard_ \- the world of humans, one of the nine worlds in Norse Mythology  
>  _Norns_ \- the Norse goddesses of fate  
>  _Bragi_ \- the Norse god of poetry, wisdom, and skill with words. 
> 
> **Poems used in the story:**  
>  In consequtive order as they appear, the verses have been taken (and in most cases, altered by me to fit the fic) from translations of the following Norse poems: 
> 
> * _Sigrdrifumal_ (This is frequently acknowledged the only real Norse "prayer" that has survived. Day, night and earth, as mentioned in the poem, were Norse deities.)  
>  * _Haraldskvæthi/Rafnsmal_  
>  * _Skirnismal_  
>  * _Havamal_ , used twice. (The two stanzas that conclude my fic are frequently said to sum up the Norse "philosophy of life": The best a person could do was to live in such a way as to be remembered with admiration by their peers and future generations.)
> 
>    
>  **Norse sources of inspiration for the fic:**  
>  In addition to the above mentioned poems, the main source of inspiration by far is the _Saga of the Volsungs_ (the Ring Cycle), which contains several instances of dramatic family-internal revenge killings, a famous dragon-slaying, brother/sister incest, shape-shifting, an enchanted sleeper within a ring of fire, and dangerous passions. Morgana's burial, her tapestries, and certain other objects described in the fic are directly inspired by the finds in the AD 834 _Oseberg ship burial of a queen and priestess_ (now in the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo, Norway). The pagan Yule celebrations are inspired by Snorri Sturluson's _Saga of Hakon the Good_. The portrayal of the goddess Freyja is inspired in part by Snorri's _Prose Edda_. (And in the interest of full disclosure, one particular fic scene has also found inspiration in JRR Tolkien's _Tale of the Children of Húrin.)_


End file.
